The Chronicles of Amber

with feet spread and sword raised, ready for battle. He was dressed all in deep blues with black trim, and his cloak ruffled faintly as though from a steady breeze. In the white spaces of the unfinished background, ever so faintly, I noticed a lacework pattern of thin black lines… curves and angles that seemed to reach deep into the card, somehow, like a three-dimensional puzzle. A representation of the Logrus? I suspected so.

Aber had just begun coloring the face when I walked in. With some surprise. I realized it was a miniature portrait of me.

“What do you think of this one?” he asked. “I’m making it for Freda. She told me she wanted it last night, after dinner.”

“No more candles?”

He chuckled. “Actually, that one was supposed to be Mattus. I finished it up this morning with your face.” He shrugged apologetically. “I was in a hurry.”

“And a good thing you were. You probably saved my life.”

“Ah, how ironic! The artist saves the warrior.”

I laughed. “It was still a good likeness, even if it started out as a picture of Mattus. And I’m even more flattered by this one.”

“Really?” He seemed honestly delighted. “You know, I think you’re the first person who’s ever said that to me!”

I regarded his new card carefully. “Blue is not really my color, though,” I said. “How about red next time?”

“The colors don’t matter, it’s the person and how the image is drawn.” He set it back in the last of the dying sunlight. “Have to let it dry now, anyway,” he said. “So, what brings you here?”

I hesitated. Trust no one, Freda had said. But this was something I couldn’t do alone. I needed an ally… and of all my family, I liked Aber most of all. If I had to trust someone, it had to be him… for no other reason than he was the one most likely to recognize the Trump I’d found. It wasn’t an easy decision, but once made, I knew it was the right one.

“I want you to look at something.” I pulled out the Locke’s Trump and handed it to him. “I found it. Is it yours?”

“Well, I made it.” He turned it over and pointed to the rampant lion painted in gold on the back. “I put a lion on all of mine. Dad never bothered with such niceties when he made Trumps.”

“Do you know who you made it for?”

He shrugged. “Why not ask at dinner? I’m sure whoever’s lost it wants it back.”

“I… do have a reason.”

“But you’re not going to say.”

“No. Not right now.”

“Hmm.” He studied me thoughtfully, then raised the Trump for a second, studying it more carefully. “Honestly, I’m not sure who I made it for,” he admitted. “I’ve done at least twenty of Locke over the years, and I always copy my original. They all look pretty much the same.”

He opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a small teak box similar to the one he’d given me, but with polished brass corners. He swung back the lid and pulled out a set of perhaps fifty or sixty cards, fanned them open, and pulled one out.

When he set it beside the Trump I had found, they appeared identical. I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. No wonder it had looked like Freda’s—he really had been copying his original card over and over. And with twenty of them out there… this Trump could belong to anyone.

“Sorry,” he said. “Like I told you, ask at dinner. That’s your best bet.”

I shook my head. “I can’t do that. Do you think it might be Locke’s?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I never give anyone their own Trump. It’s a waste of my time. Why would you want to contact yourself?”

It made sense. And yet, when I thought back to my carriage ride, envisioning the Trumps I’d seen on the table, I was pretty sure Freda had one of herself.

“What about Freda?” I asked. “Doesn’t she…”

“Oh, that’s different.” He laughed. “She reads patterns from them, so she needs one of everyone in the family, including herself. That’s what you get for growing up in the Courts. People are… different there. They think and teach and learn things that the rest of us, who grew up in Shadows, can only long for.”

I nodded. It all fit. “So Locke wouldn’t need it. He couldn’t use it. But Davin…”

“Yes, it might be his.” Aber’s eyes narrowed a bit with sudden suspicion. “Why are you asking all these questions? Something’s wrong. Where did you really get it… in the enemy’s camp?”

I hesitated. If I could trust one family member, somehow I thought it would be Aber. Should I tell him? I needed an ally… someone in whom I could confide and seek advice… someone who knew Juniper. And if anything happened to me, if another hell-creature managed to assassinate me, I wanted the truth known. He had just guessed where the card had come from, after all. What could it hurt to tell him the truth… or as much of it as he needed to know?

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He took my silence for confirmation. “So… they have our Trumps.”

I took a deep breath. Against my instincts for secrecy, I told him how I had found the Trump, hidden it from Locke and Davin, and brought it back with me.

Then I told him my suspicions about a traitor in Juniper.

“And you thought these spies had been talking to Locke,” he said, folding his hands together under his chin thoughtfully. “You thought Locke might betray us.”

“That was the general idea,” I admitted. “He’s been the most, ah, hostile, after all.”

“You’re wrong,” Aber said bluntly. He looked me straight in the eye. “Locke doesn’t have the imagination or the ambition to betray anyone. He and Davin spent the last year training the army for Dad. They will both fight to the death, if necessary, to protect us.”

“Maybe he thinks we’re going to lose and wants to be on the winning side.”

“They are trying to wipe out our bloodline. Why would they let him live?”

“Deals have been made before.”

“Not with Locke.”

“Then how do you explain this?” I tapped the Trump with my finger. “Maybe they agreed to let him live out his years in exile. It’s a small price it he can deliver Juniper… all of us.”

“I don’t know.” His brow furrowed again. “There are at least four sets of Trumps missing… Mattus, Alanar, Taine, and Clay all carried them. This card could easily be one of theirs.”

“Then why Locke?” I demanded. “Why would hell-creatures carry his card and no others?”

“And why would they forget it when they left?” Aber countered. “It’s not the sort of thing you’d accidentally leave behind when you clear out camp. And, for that matter, it’s not the sort of thing a routine scout would carry.”

“I see your point,” I admitted.

“What if they wanted us to find it,” he went on. “What if they planned the whole thing, right down to hiding that card in the bedroll?”

The idea hadn’t occurred to me. It was devious… exactly the sort of trick a hell-creature might try.

Aber went on, “If Dad stripped Locke of his command, it would do us real damage. The men love him and will follow him to the seven hells and back, if he asks. Davin isn’t half the leader Locke is. And the men don’t know you well enough to follow you. Losing Locke would be a terrible blow.”

“You have a good point,” I admitted.

“So, what are you going to do?” he asked. “Tell Dad or keep it to yourself?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “If only you recognized the Trump!”

I began to pace, thinking. Everything had seemed much clearer before I’d talked to Aber, when Locke looked guilty. Now, according to Aber, finding the Trump meant the traitor could be anyone except Locke.

Who?